


Interlude

by sanserifnotes (tuesdayafternoon)



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Cancer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 03:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4650702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuesdayafternoon/pseuds/sanserifnotes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Foggy is hospitalised as a result of the side effects of his chemo. Matt stays with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interlude

It's dark out by the time Foggy finds himself easing back to consciousness. 

As he hovers just outside of it, he begins to feel the nausea – still there from before, but now more like a cruise ship in calm seas rather than a dinghy in a storm. He groans against his will: on top of the uneasiness in his gut, there’s an ache in the crook of his elbow that he knows immediately is an IV, not to mention a heaviness in his mind that he’s sure is the remnant of a migraine and the drugs used to ease it. Foggy forces his eyes open.

“Hey, buddy.”

Foggy looks out of the corner of his eye and sees Matt in a chair at his bedside, and only then turns his head. The movement is uncomfortable, but Matt’s smiling and closing the case notes he’s been reading and putting his glasses into his pocket, and then he’s placing a comforting hand on Foggy’s forearm, so it’s worth it.

“Hey,” Foggy croaks in reply. He clears his throat and tries again, but he sounds the same. “What time is it?”

Matt touches his watch. “A little after seven. How are you feeling?”

Foggy sighs and takes a moment to think about it. “Well, I don’t feel like puking my guts up,” he decides on. “That’s somethin’.” He tries to push himself up a little straighter in bed, and it’s more of an effort than he’d like to admit. He settles against his pillows once more, but inhales a sharp breath that he knows Matt will hear.

Matt’s hand is on his shoulder in a heartbeat. “Are you in pain?” Matt asks, tone straddling the line between query and demand. “I can find a doctor, have them give you something.”

“I’m okay.” Foggy’s learned that Matt will accept this lie, if only because it applies to his wider existence these days.

“You sure?”

“Just a bit of a headache, nothing too bad,” Foggy says, and he affects a smile as though it will make him more convincing. “Although I’m pretty sure it’s half from caffeine withdrawal right now. Y’know, it’s a shame they don’t deliver coffee right through this IV.”

Matt settles back into his chair. “And that coffee cup at the bottom of the bin? The one that Marci brought you?”

“Half caff,” Foggy admits, despite how he’s honestly more regretful that it wasn’t ordinary dark roast than he is about being caught.

Matt smiles halfway genuinely. “You should tell Marci to take her rubbish with her next time. Less evidence.”

“Noted.” For a moment, there’s nothing but the muffled sounds of traffic from the road and the buzz of the hospital as it keeps ticking over. Then Foggy says, “So you gonna tell me what I missed?”

“Karen stopped by,” Matt says carefully. “Brought you a balloon.”

Foggy looks up, and sure enough, there’s a balloon. It’s swaying lazily on its string, anchored to a weight that sits beside the ‘get well soon’ card designed colourfully in crayon by Clint Peterson’s eldest kid (and signed in scribbles by the younger ones). On the balloon, a golden teddy bear hugging a love heart smiles at him and says, “A get well hug for you!”, and that makes the corners of Foggy’s mouth tip up a little. “Tell her thanks for me, will you?”

“You can tell her yourself,” Matt replies. “She’ll drop by again tomorrow.”

Foggy frowns. “Tomorrow?”

“Yeah, the, um…” Matt clears his throat. “The doctor said you’re gonna be here for at least another day. Until they’re sure your side effects have quietened down.”

The pounding in Foggy’s head becomes more pronounced. “Perfect.” He fiddles with the loops in the crochet blanket thrown over the hospital sheets, the smell of cigar smoke woven just as tightly into the stitches as the soft wool is. “Well…maybe you could ask Karen to bring the Kisler file when she comes tomorrow so I can get a start on that.”

Matt’s quiet. “Foggy…”

“I’m just lying around anyway. May as well do something useful, right?”

“Foggy, come on, no.” Matt leans forward. “We don’t need you to be _useful_ , Foggy; we need you to take some time to get back on your feet, just a little while. To rest. To feel better. You’re taking on too much.”

“And what about you, Matt.” Foggy’s too tired for a proper argument – defeat ripples through his voice – but he’d have to be dead to just let this go. “You’re still snapping on the spandex every other night, you won’t let me do my part of the work, you won’t go home – ”

“Foggy…”

“I’m sick of feeling like this,” Foggy says flatly, “and I’m sick of lying here, and you probably need rest more than I do and I just – ” He shakes his head. He feels shaky. He feels cold everywhere, except behind his eyes; they’re too warm, like he might cry, adding insult to injury. God, he’s tired. “Can you just…?”

He hears Matt take a deep breath – Foggy thinks Matt sounds a little unsteady himself, but it’s hard to concentrate – and begin to get to his feet. “I – I can go, if that’s what you – ”

“It’s just…I want…” Foggy closes his eyes. He just needs a minute to decide what he wants.

But that minute’s too silent, stretches out too long; Foggy can’t seem to take the opportunities to fill it – his mind feels heavy again, clouded. Foggy finally manages to snap his eyes open when he’s sure it’s too late; he turns back to where Matt had been, sure that his friend had left like Foggy wasn’t sure he’d wanted him to.

“Matt?” he calls, his voice coarse, weak. The nausea’s beginning to swell again.

“Yeah, Foggy?” Matt climbs out from under his suit jacket, out of his chair, and feels around on the rough hospital sheets for Foggy’s hand.

Foggy touches his knuckles gently to Matt’s fingers, and Matt takes his hand. “Can you stay? Just a little longer?”

“As long as you want, buddy.” Leaning down, Matt gives Foggy a kiss that lands a little too close to his eyebrow to be on-target. Matt corrects his aim, then whispers, “go back to sleep.”

Foggy won’t, not for a few hours, at least. He’ll spend those alternating between a cold sweat and dry heaving into a container, Matt’s hand always warm and comforting. But eventually, Foggy will feel cautiously not-awful and Matt will have dozed off in the chair beside his bed. Then, even if it’s only briefly, he’ll get some rest.


End file.
